Friday, April 20, 2012
I'm not an Instagram person. I was one, almost, when I found out my phone was so old I couldn't download the photo app I really wanted. But in the end I decided not to do it. It all seemed so weirdly public; I think I foist enough of myself unsolicited upon other people without adding to that every bad snapshot I take. And then I felt all superior for not being an Instagram person, because suddenly it meant being a Facebook person too, and barring someone forcing me, I will never be one of those. Still, I understand the appeal. I understand how groups of random shots of fleeting moments can capture the feel of a day, a week, a time, like nothing else can. But just because I skipped Instagram and scorn Facebook doesn't mean I don't take random snapshots. It doesn't mean I don't have pictures to remind me when a season spins past too quickly to stop and describe it, when a place blurs into images that will soon be irrelevant and gone.